


Clove and Camellia and Smoke

by tradescant (tofty)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-07
Updated: 2003-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/tradescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack brings Will a souvenir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clove and Camellia and Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Chloe as part of a drabble challenge in my livejournal.

When you're working at night in the forge, the light from the lanterns and the hearth turn everything into a kind of autumnal haze. You work over the fire, you pound the blade into paper-thin sharpness, and after a while, the work takes on a rhythm of its own and you drift into a dream of orange light and brown shadows and sweat and smoke. Sometimes you don't hear anything but your own hammer and the rush of the bellows and the roar of the flames, and sometimes the night sounds from the village seep in around the edges, snatches of music and laughter, voices thrumming, cooler, less elemental.

It's a good thing you can't quite hear the lap of water against the shore over the noise of the forge--it's the one thing that could possibly break your concentration, when you're working.

Tonight you're finishing a commission, tempered steel, a sapphire-studded crossguard and an intricately engraved blade. You're testing for balance with two fingers under the pommel when a voice much closer behind you than the shouts and laughter in the streets sounds in your ear.

"A fine weapon, my good man." You jerk in surprise and an arm (clad, you are not surprised to see, in a filthy rusty-black jacket) reaches around you to grab the sword's hilt before it falls. "Or at least, it's supremely lovely. But how does it fare in combat?"

You pause, take a breath. "It fares well, as my weapons always do, Jack Sparrow." You turn, and he is right there, chest against chest. Your noses are nearly touching, and his eyes (black eyes, black kohl) peer straight into yours. You take a step back, the heat of the fire against your side, and he follows, still close enough to touch. A step sideways, and there he is with you. "Jack," you begin. "It's getting late. I'm very tired. Elizabeth ought to be home by now. Let's go home, have a late supper, you can stay the night and sneak out to your ship before dawn. I don't want a duel tonight."

Jack smiles a slow smile that echoes round the stone walls and sends you another step back, and him another step forward. His gold tooth flashes in your peripheral vision, and the room dims a little in the brilliance of it, and he says softly, "then it is a pity, truly, that I am not giving you a choice." His hand comes up between you, brushes briefly over your belly, and with a flick of his wrist the sword is upright, separating your faces with your noses nearly pressed to the blade. "I suggest you arm yourself, Will Turner. You have five seconds to find a sword of your own."

"No, really--Jack--"

"...three...two...one..." He stares at you as you allow him to count down without moving, and his face is mournful as he says, "Ah, then, it's to be a surrender without a fight. I had really thought better of you, Will. Your cowardice wounds me, it does. I thought I had trained you better." You take two more steps back, a few inches from the wall now and this time he doesn't follow, instead moves to prop the sword carefully against a small table holding a tray of daggers. His shoulders relax a bit, and you relax too, leaning against the wall for a moment in sheer relief.

"Well, I'll just tidy up here a bit, and then we can find--" you lean cautiously away from the wall as you speak, taking your own weight, but then you are back against the wall again, pinned by a dagger at each upper arm. "Damn it, Jack," you sputter as you wave your arms ineffectually at your sides, "will you please let me--we can't--I mean, someone could--"

Two more daggers follow the first two. For someone who spends such an inordinate amount of time drinking rum, he has a good arm and aims true, and you're effectively trapped, arms splayed against the wall as he picks up a fifth dagger and strolls towards you. "Will, you've surrendered," he says with exaggerated patience, again only inches away. "According to pirate code, if you surrender, your weapons, your cargo and your life are mine to wield as I will." He steps closer and draws the hand holding the dagger up under your leather apron. "You had your chance, Mister Turner, and you've surrendered it. And now you must surrender to me."

He leans in closer, so close you can see the eyelashes usually camouflaged by the smeared kohl. "I even brought you a present," he announces sorrowfully, and licks his tongue lightly at your lips, and suddenly your vision is dimming at the edges, and you're anchored in place by the knives and by his slurry drawl, and you've forgotten why it was you wanted to get home before letting this happen, and what was that about a present?

You blink, feeling drugged. "You brought me..." Oh, God, the blade pointing down between your legs, you think, the crossguard pressed tight and moving slightly against your balls, the hilt rubbing against your cock, and you stop talking--stop thinking at all--and tilt your head forward to kiss him properly, and now he's the one leaning away.

"A present, yes, Will, and though you do not deserve to be rewarded for your pitiful lack of spirit, I will show you what it is." He steps back, the dagger coming away from your cock, and the lack of weight against it draws most of the breath from your body, for just a moment. Jack smiles with little sympathy before tucking the dagger in his belt to rummage in various pockets, finally drawing out two small wax-sealed bottles with a flourish. "Behold, I bear you...sword oil!"

A laugh escapes you. "Well, thank you, Jack, but I already have--"

"Ah, but Will, this is special oil. Very expensive oil, all the way from the shores of the Orient. One bottle of camellia oil, one bottle of clove oil. Do you have those?"

You're starting to pull against your restraints. "...No. Thank you very much. Jack, why don't we--"

And he's back against you, his mouth against yours, tongue sliding inside, and when he finally pulls back, you've again long since stopped fighting. He breathes hotly into your mouth, "Do you know the best thing about this oil? The best thing is that they can be used for oiling more than just metal." The bottles clink together as he slips them back into a pocket, and he reaches around your back to untie your apron and kisses you again before pulling it heavily up and tucking it over and behind your head, so that you are completely blind in a warm brown sweaty smoky airless place and your own breath sounds loudly in your ears and there is a curtain of leather between you and everything but the feel of Jack's hands, which are now at your waist with fingertips sliding just under the edge of your rough work trousers.

"Will." His voice sounds as though it's farther away. "Take a breath and hold it." You do, and there is a moment of nothing and then something cool sliding down against your skin under the trousers. The flat of the dagger blade, and you make a noise the you've never actually heard yourself make before. "Suck in hard, love," comes the distant voice, and you do, and the blade turns against the edge of your cock and swipes sharply away from your skin and you are no doubt now completely exposed to him, trousers and drawers hanging open because you can feel the air cooling your skin and the freer brush of his hand against your skin. He pushes the fabric down to your ankles, spreads your knees as far as they'll go in your hobbled state, and you're rather grateful, for an instant, that you can't see what an ass you must look like this. The disembodied voice again, but you can't quite make out the words.

A clinking of glass and then the world becomes even smaller, no airless little brown world or your breath any more or his voice or wondering about the sight you must make, and you must be moving, are probably shouting, but there's just nothing but the slippery hand gripping your cock and pulling and the slippery fingertips sliding into the crack of your arse and thrusting suddenly, hard, into your hole and the dagger pressed up against your balls again, and you have no idea how long the world stays that small, but it can't be for very long, because you cannot possibly have lasted for very long. When it finally enlarges again, Jack is pulling the apron away from your face and letting it drop heavily over your bare legs, his tongue licking against yours again, and then he's asking a question, and it takes a minute to understand the words and even then you're not sure what he's asking.

"Which of what do I prefer?"

"Of your presents, you daft pirate's booty. Which oil did you prefer? I told you to keep track. Or were you not listening?"

You stare at him for a moment before admitting, "I was not listening." He peers at you in sheer disgust.

"Will, did you think this was all just in fun? It was an experiment! I shall just have to ask Elizabeth to test them for me. She doesn't have your practical knowledge of swords, but she'll have to do." He shakes his head in mock regret and unpins you from the wall.

"Which was which?" you ask. "I'll try to remember which I liked better."

"Oh, never mind, dolt. You won't remember, you were too far gone. I've never heard sounds like that from another human being." He pauses. "Besides, I don't remember which was which, if you _must_ know."

You burst out laughing and lean down to pull your tattered trousers and drawers up to your waist, holding onto them as you wander over to a table of sundries to rummage around for something to secure them with, come up with a lethal-looking hatpin. "I suppose I'll have to wear my apron home tonight, Captain. You've ruined every stitch of clothing I have on but that one." You fasten up and begin bedding the forge down for the night, putting out lanterns and stowing equipment and wares, and just before you turn down the last lamp, you turn back to him and raise your eyebrows. "All right, time to give me back the sword and dagger."

It's his turn to laugh, and he pulls the items out from where he's socked them away, carries them over to you and kisses you with his hands to your face, a hilt pressed to either cheek. "Ahhh..." he sighs when he pulls away, "You aren't quite as daft as you seem. That is too bad."

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering, both camellia oil and clove oil are safe to use as lubricants, and edible as well.


End file.
